


i've come to burn your kingdom down (no rivers and no lakes can put the fire out)

by littlefoxfires



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, Grounder Bellamy Blake, Grounder Octavia Blake, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Love Triangles, Multi, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-04-10 09:52:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4387250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlefoxfires/pseuds/littlefoxfires
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Lexa’s betrayal and the fall of Mount Weather, tensions are high between the Sky People and the Trigakru. In order to protect her people, Clarke forms an invasive alliance with a dangerous king.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't get this idea out of my head, so I started another story, knowing full well I still have to finish my first one, because I hate myself. 
> 
> I feel as if I should explain: This is, simply, a grounder!Bellamy AU. Because Bellamy and Octavia never landed with the 100 (99), things went different (obviously). Not that different, though. Also, this is very Clarke-centric, and it should be said that Bellamy and Octavia have VERY ambiguous morality and might just be insane/horrible people. 
> 
> Trigger Warnings (!!!) for dub-con (please don't read if it triggers you, because I was worried writing that), spiked drinks, implied character death, angst.

In Clarke’s dreams, there are bodies, everywhere. Burned bodies. Boiled bodies. Sick and twisted. She wakes up and realizes: these are not dreams. This is reality. And yet? It doesn’t bother her. Not as much as it should. Because what keeps her alive and sane is work. Sacrifice. She heard that, not too long ago. “Victory is stands on the back of sacrifice,” Lexa had said, green eyes boring straight into her, unwavering, fearless. At the time, Clarke believed her. She trusted her. Perhaps, she still does.

Which is why, of course, she’s here. Miles south of where they started. She walks through the village (it is more of a town, it is made of mixed materials, but mostly stone, with open doors and windows, more intricately built than TonDC was), and people stare, they whisper. The children by the market? They actually look afraid, and that’s sadder than more than one hundred dead bodies rotting in the confines of a mountain. Much sadder.

“They’re afraid,” her mother comments their guide, a tall, muscular man, with tattoos winding down his body. His name is Lincoln. He’s a diplomat, he’d told them, a scholar. Someone they’re supposed to trust. But, Clarke hardly trusts anyone. She’s arrived with few of the people she does—Wells (logical, intelligent, trustworthy), Finn Collins (diplomatic, peace-keeping), and Raven Reyes (reckless enough to stab anyone that came to close). Her mother and Marcus Kane insisted on coming. Adult supervision that they don’t need. She’s not a child. None of them are.

Lincoln hesitates, glances for a second at her, and Clarke understands. _They’re afraid of her._

They climb long stone steps, pass guards. Lincoln talks to them in a language she doesn’t quite understand. She has a fairly alright grasp on Trigakru, but this is nothing like that. It’s flowy, and then, she realizes—

“Sounds like Latin,” Wells mummers, a bit amazed.

Abby makes a surprised noise, and the scholar in Clarke herself is also interested. Almost one-hundred years are a group of people—a civilization—is still speaking something akin Latin. She wonders.

They enter what she’s guessing is a throne room, and Clarke holds her head high. In front of a large, stone throne is a pair, boy and girl. She’s short, scarily beautiful, all sharp, small, fierce features. She stays to the side, whispering in the boy’s ear reverently, almost angrily.

The boy---

Well. The man, he’s a King.

There is no crown on his head. His clothing doesn’t scream nobility, in fact, nothing about him does. He sits back into his throne, mouth tight, and everything about him demands respect and emulates power. He’s listening to the girl next to him, mouth in a tight line, and suddenly, his eyes snap to Clarke, and she lifts her head. She won’t be intimidated.

The man waves his hand impatiently, and with a frustrated sigh, the girl leans back in what looks to be a familiar stance, arms behind her back, face forward and stern. She’s no older than herself, Clarke realizes. A child, but she stands like a soldier.

“So,” when he speaks, his voice is deep, rumbling, stirring dread through her, silky smooth, with no amusement, only curiosity, and oddly, admiration. He lifts himself from the throne, walks down the few steps, and Clarke feels Wells tense up beside her, “This is the woman who brought an entire mountain to its knees,” when he reaches her, his gaze is searching, not just her face, “You’re shorter than I expected.”

“You’re younger than I expected.” Clarke snaps before she can help herself, and she can hear the strange girl growl in anger from where she’s standing.

The King, however, has just the hint of a smirk lifting the corner of his mouth, “Am I?”

As if released, her entire party relaxes, like, good. We won’t die today.

“My name is Bellamy,” he said, and Clarke wants to try the name on her tongue, but she hesitates, “This,” he gestured behind him, to the girl with the death glare, “Is my sister, Octavia.”

He turns to take her in once more, “Welcome to _Zona Morta.”_

\---

The two of them are on a balcony, over-looking the town. It’s on the edge of the Dead Zone. Desert, mostly, dusty and hot. Apparently, it’s something akin to a trading post. They get so much business that it keeps the city bustling. Clarke is reminded of old pirate movies with port towns, people from all walks of life that find a home somewhere far off.   

The thing about him, is that he’s charming. Perhaps too much so. Also, he speaks perfect English.

 _“I despise Lexa,”_ Bellamy says bluntly, and Clarke is so taken aback by his condor that she turns to him in surprise.

He stays facing his village, hand gripping the railing, his shoulder tense underneath the thin layers.

“Excuse me?”

He turns to her. His eyes are brown, flickering with danger, something feral in them. For that moment she takes him in. Skin brown, glistening lightly from the heat, dusted with freckles. His hair is dark and wild , “I want her dead,” he tells her frankly, “I want her people burned to the ground. I want to drink wine out of her _skull.”_

Clarke feels her heart speed up and immediately regrets agreeing to be alone with this man.

His eyes focus once more on the scenery in front of them, “She has support from the surrounding tribes. She’s strong. Resilient. Willing to do—“

“What need to be done,” Clarke finishes for him. They look at each other for a moment, and there is a ferocity in Bellamy’s eyes that gets darker with each moment. She cannot look away. Clarke is engulfed in it for a second, only aware that he’s gotten close to her when her breathing is heavy, when she’s remembering all that’s she’s done, all that she and Lexa did to win a war Clarke had to win herself. And--

“I want her dead, too,” Clarke realizes. She came for protection, she thinks. Or perhaps not. Perhaps she came for another war.

Bellamy’s smile is confusing to her, ambigious as he continues, so close he’s speaking a bit more quietly than before, and she doesn’t have to strain to hear him, “Alliances are tricky, Clarke.”

“Believe me, I know,” she deadpans, and he smirks a bit, amused.

“That is why I never make them. I don’t trust anyone but my family. My sister. Lincoln, her husband. I don’t trust anyone, Clarke.”

She lifts her chin, wondering suddenly if the trip is in vain. What’s to become of them? What if she led them into a trap? What if this is a way to lure Lexa here? What if—

And then, he lifts a tentative hand and brushes it over her cheek. Oh, my God.

“Alliances made for revenge, _for power_? They never last. You’ve learned that the hard way, I hear. But family never betrays family. Blood is stronger than the complexities of war, of politics.”

Clarke opens her mouth to speak, but stops. She turns away, looking over the balcony, the gorgeous and expansive city.

\---

When they arrive back in the throne room, Octavia rushes over to her brother in haste, giving Clarke a nasty glare all the while, and she finally understands the girl’s animosity. She’s talking quickly in the not-quite-Latin, and her brother is nodding, rolling his eyes in a typical sibling fashion. It’s almost cute, but her heart is drumming so hard in her chest she can’t think.

Wells is by her side, “What happened?” she whispers.

She just shakes her head.

\---

They spend the next couple of days learning. It’s hotter down where the city is located, but Clarke sleeps comfortably in the room that is set up for only her, wind breezing through the open windows, light, airy  blankets keeping her snug but cool. They’re even given new clothing to wear. Her mother spends hours a day in what they have set up as a clinic. Learning, teaching, building a relationship with the healers.

Finn spends hours with Lincoln, obsessing their impressive library. He learns some of the language fairly quickly. Raven is nowhere in sight.

Wells and Marcus accompany her and Bellamy into town, and she gets firsthand look at a King among his people. He is greeted with smiles and embraces, like a long-lost son or brother.

“Your people love you,” Marcus comments, and it sort of with respect.

She takes a moment to glance at him, quickly, and there is a faint smile on his face, “Love carries more loyalty than fear,” he responds, quirking an eyebrow, “Don’t you think?”

Clarke can tell this impresses Marcus. He’s only ever known loyalty in the face of losing one’s life. Being cast into the cold dark of space. But, he’s learning. “Did the previous leader teach you that?” he inquires.

Something stills in Bellamy’s face, but he never stops walking, “No.”

The silence that follows is awkward. They reach the training grounds not long after, and Clarke suddenly realizes why she hasn’t seen Raven all day. There is a shallow pit, surrounded by cheering soldiers, and in the center, a fiery-eyed Raven is fighting hand to hand to Octavia.

Clarke suppresses a groan as she rushes over. Raven is strong, Clarke knows that. She’d spent months training with the Trigakru, under Indra. But she’s no match for Octavia’s quiet, detailed ferocity. The girl is watching her like a tiger.

“She’s strong,” Bellamy comments from beside her, and Clarke turns, startled. He smiles faintly, “Just because she’s losing doesn’t mean she isn’t strong.”

Octavia wraps her leg around Raven’s outstretched arm and uses it to drag her to the floor. A roar rips through the crowd.

Clarke exhales, because God. “Octavia is—“

“The Commander of my army,” Bellamy finishes for her, and the proud look on his face as he watches his sister beat up Clarke’s friend actually touches her. She’s used to women in charge, but Octavia can’t be older than sixteen, “She can beat any of these men. She’s my right hand.”

“Can she beat you?” Clarke can’t help but ask.

Amusement mixed with annoyance dances across his face for a second, there for a second before it is gone, “Once,” he glances at her, rolls his eyes, “Twice. By accident.”

Clarke ducks her head to hide her smile, because the last thing she wants to be is charmed. But, then Octavia’s knee is in Raven’s throat and Bellamy is silencing the crowd. Octavia lets her go, and helps the other girl up. Respect shines in Octavia’s eyes, but it disappear as soon as she glances in Clarke’s direction.

“She doesn’t like me,” Clarke comments stoically, and the look Bellamy gives her is so interested and intense, she looks back in the direction of the ring, where Octavia is guiding Raven to the sidelines. Octavia and Raven can bond over that much. They’re relationship still hasn’t healed. Clarke doesn’t think it ever will.

\---

Later, Finn is cornering her in the hallway, speaking in terse tones.

“What the fuck, Clarke?” he grits out, “Lincoln told me.”

There’s no reason for his whispers. “What else did he tell you?”

Finn looks at her incredulously. There is no use lying to him. Since the first day they’ve met, the two them had been connected. She’d seen a reputation at first, reckless, smart-mouthed. And then she learned he was more than that. Loving, good-natured, funny. Smart, as well. He was trustworthy, well liked among the remaining members of the kids that first arrived on the dropship. Instrumental in organizing their alliance with Lexa. 

“Everything,” Finn insists, “Everything that you won’t tell me.”

Clarke runs a hand through the flyaway hair in her face, it’s up in a high ponytail, out of her face, just like Finn’s, “I was going to.”

_“When.”_

Clarke takes a deep breath, “I didn’t want to burden you until I knew what I was going to decide.”

Finn’s eyes widen, “Wait. You’re considering this.”

She swallows, hands on her hips.

“Clarke…”

 _“What choice do I have?”_ she hisses, “Tell me, Finn. Think of an idea!” She’s almost hysterical, almost serious when she asks him.

Finn shakes his head, looking at her searchingly, mouth open, at a loss for words. Because he doesn’t know.

\---

“It’s expansive,” Clarke marvels, looking at rows of books and texts, “Amazing.”

Bellamy hums distractedly, fingering through a book. When Clarke peers closer, it’s something she doesn’t recognize.

“What’s that?” Clarke asks, suddenly interested. Perhaps it’s a curse. She falls in so deep, connects with people. When really, Clarke doesn’t want to feel anything at all.

There is a moment of silence, and Bellamy doesn’t look to her, “Plato wrote—“

Clarke raises an eyebrow, “Plato?”

He looks at her, confused, “Yes?”

She coughs, embarrassed, “Go on.”

He puts down the book, walks toward her. He’s close, again, like before, voice low and deep, “Plato wrote that humans were born with four arms. Four legs. Two faces. They were great. Powerful. So powerful that they threatened Gods.”

Something in her refuses to look away from the dark pools of his eyes.

Bellamy continues, “The Gods were afraid of them, so they split them in half. Made them long for their soulmates. Search for them.”

Her breath catches, and she clears her throat, lifts her chin and looks him in the eyes, “You believe that?”

He’s so close she can smell him, stone and musk and salt. His gaze is unwavering, “Yes.”

She tears her gaze away, and changes the subject, “When did you become King? I thought, maybe a royal bloodline?”

“I became King when I killed the previous King. I was only sixteen.”

He’s young, she knows that. But, all she hears is “killed.” Clarke frowns, “Is that how your succession works?”

He shrugs, looks away, “Sometimes.”

It makes more sense to her, now. And then, something in her wants so desperately to know. She needs to know. It’s killing her, ever since he mentioned soulmates, “You told me the other day that family was important. You say love breeds loyalty,” she looks down, trying to get the image of a dead boy out of her head, “Lexa once told me love was weakness.”

Bellamy is silent, before he says, “Lexa and I are very different people.”

Clarke isn’t so sure, “Why do you hate her?”

He answers immediately, “Many reasons."

She fired back, "Give me one."

"A woman.”

Clarke is startled by this.

He takes a deep breath, and for once, he’s not looking at her, over her shoulder, “One of her people. We were star-crossed lovers and she became a casualty of war,” he gets a faraway look in his eyes, “One of many. She had her executed. They—“

“I know what they do,” Clarke interrupts him, voice going low and deadly, remembering blood on her hands, gleaming in torchlight. “I know exactly what they do.”

After a moment, he continues, “When I heard, I had the one she loved taken.”

Her head snaps up, and she remembers, _her name was Costia._

The light in Bellamy’s eyes is dreadfully angry and a little crazed, “I sliced off her head, and sent it with a basket of dead flowers and rotting fruit,” he chuckles, sardonically, “I never heard if she liked the gift.” He turns to her, and the next words have her shivering—

“I loved her. And that gave me strength. It still does.”

Clarke has no idea why she finds that so compelling. In actuality, it’s crazy. He’s crazy. There are times when she finds him so profound. But war over the love of a woman? There is a fine line between love and revenge, and though Bellamy claims revenge does not bond, all she can think about is the love of a boy she lost. A love she could still have. A love she sacrificed for nothing. And she wants revenge. She’s burning with it, consumed by it. It makes her decision easy.

\---

“No,” her mother says, stern and final, shaking her head, arms crossed. It’s funny, how Abby can pretend to be a mother, a parent, when Clarke has been on her own for so long. It’s funny.

“It’s not you’re decision,” Clarke deadpans.

Clarke has already made up her mind, because in a way, Lexa was right.

_Victory stands on the back of sacrifice._

She isn’t aware she says it out loud until she hears Raven snort sardonically.

“There isn’t any other option,” and she’s surprisingly calm about it, frowning as she looks at the stone of the table, nails scratching into it, “In an odd way, it makes sense. He doesn’t trust alliances. What he trusts is family. It’s a stronger bond than a promise, it’s…”

“Children.” That comes from Finn, “That’s what he wants.”

Clarke swallows, and nods. The thought of it sickens her. All she can think of is hundreds of dead kids in Mount Weather, the frightened stares of the village children who’ve heard legends about her. Everything fragile in her hands breaks.

“It’s _medieval_ ,” Finn continues, standing to get everyone’s attention, pushing the hair out of his eyes, “There’s a limit to what we’re willing to do. What we’re willing to sacrifice. There has to be, unless...we lose who we are. You’re not _cattle_ , Clarke, you’re not something to be traded. You’re a _person.”_

But, those words have come too late. She’s already lost who she is. She’s done things Finn’s forgiven her for, sure, but she hasn’t forgiven herself for. All she knows is this. Surviving, sacrificing, death. Finn might be human, but she doesn’t feel as if she is any longer.

Later, when everyone is gone, Wells will beg her, “You have more worth than this. You are more than this,” he insists, holding on to her hands.

Clarke looks at Wells, pitying (for him and her) as she shakes her head, and corrects him, _“I’m not.”_

_\---_

Their wedding is intricate. She’s given a flowing red dress by Bellamy’s sister, as custom. White has apparently died out. The girl walks into her room with a grimace, yanks at her hair to thread flowers intricately in the tresses, curses when she gets something wrong. At one point the girl drops her hands with a frustrated noise.

“I can’t understand you,” Clarke says, attempting to stay calm, and Octavia narrows her eyes.

“I’m a _warrior_ ,” she says impatiently, “I’m not trained to…” she looks away.

The girl continues to braid flows into her hair with a grimace, and when she finishes, Octavia announces, “It’s horrible,” shyly, trying to maintain a stubborn façade as she folds her arms.

But, it isn’t. Clarke touches the flowers, looking in the dented mirror in wonder. She looks…good. The dress is a dark flame against her pale skin, off her shoulders, delicate and long. In her hair the white flowers are woven into braids, most of her hair is falling on her shoulders.

“It’s beautiful,” she says honestly, and Octavia’s head snaps to her in surprise, before the girl puts a familiar scowl on her face and leaves to room with haste.

And then, she’s left alone, breathing heavily as she looks at how far she’s come to this moment.

\---

The ceremony is at night, roaring flames. They actually walk down an aisle. They do.

In her peripheral vision she can see faces among the flames. She kneels with Bellamy in front of the whole village, as well as the few people she brought with her. His face is strangely calm, the intense, searching stare she still hasn’t gotten used to, and she’s spent about a week here already. Gaze unwavering, he slices her palm with an intricate knife, she does his, and they clasps their hands and As per the custom Octavia starts binds their wrists carefully with an aged vine. Her mother binds the rest, she can see the women’s hands shaking as she tied the knot, both families bonding them together.

Something in Clarke worries that Abby will grab her and run off if they meet eyes. So instead, she looks at Bellamy. There is a satisfaction in his gaze, something that actually troubles her.

\---

Next is large feast that she doesn’t even taste. She notices her people mixed among Bellamy’s. That was probably Finn’s idea. The look on Bellamy’s face is back to impassive, but there is something underlying that makes her steel herself, that same predatory glare, the same hint of a smirk.

He lifts his cup in her direction, _“Vivat Regina,”_ and takes a long sip. Everyone echoes after him, and Clarke frowns in confusion before drinking deeply from her cup.

Finn leans in to translate in a whisper, _“Long live the Queen.”_ Her stomach knots.

The wine starts to flow.

After all of it, she’s reminded that it’s a celebration. She lets loose, for once in her life. Her cup is never empty, drums are banging, colors are bright and swirling, and suddenly she’s being twirled around by a smiling Finn in the middle of the dance floor, who apparently has forgotten his qualms about her marriage (fuck, she’s married) and has decided to have fun. She spins so hard she crashes into Bellamy, who steadies her in his arms, and all she can take in is the deep brown of his eyes and his heady smell around her.

He’s talking to her, she doesn’t know exactly what he’s saying because it’s in that language, but God. It sounds amazing. It’s as if there is a direct line from her ear to the space in-between her legs.

“What’s in the wine?” she asks into his own ear, curling her fingers in his shirt, trying to ignore his shiver.

All he does is smile, a lazy, drugged smile, because he’s been drinking it too, and lifts her suddenly in his arms. She’s being carried bridal style up the stairs while the party cheers and catcalls after them, and it’s honestly really embarrassing, but then she’s being dropped on a large, low, comfortable bed and he’s over her like a predator, and she’s so turned on she can’t even _think._

The moan she gives is filthy and gets drowned in the harsh kiss Bellamy places on her mouth. They hadn’t even kissed in the ceremony.

He’s speaking again, and in her drugged, lust-filled haze, she demands, “English.”

Bellamy chuckles, “When I heard about you, I was impressed, captivated with the legend of a great warrior,” he clarifies, speaking into her skin as his teeth scraps her neck, behind her ear, his hands squeeze her thigh, “And when I saw you, I knew…” he sucks what Clarke is sure is going to dark mark onto her neck, “I knew...”

If Clarke were sober, she’d be a bit disturbed, a bit curious herself. But, no? His words are igniting her, send trembles down her body, and a short, quick spike of arousal so strong it was almost painful.

He leans back and she is forced to watch him whip off his deep red shirt, her eyes trailing over detailed, powerful muscles. He’s like a Greek God. It is only when he starts undoing his pants that she stops him, almost coming to her senses, “Wait,” she clasps his arm tight, swallowing nervously.

It all came to her now. She is going to be pregnant. She is going to have a child.

“I’m not…I want to wait,” she says, trying for stern.

Bellamy’s eyes trail down her body, and she closes her eyes, imaging that she must look like prey. Octavia reluctantly (embarrassingly) told her that wearing underwear wasn’t part of their wedding traditions, and now she knows why. Her dress is hiked up around her hips, and the way he’s cradled between her legs, she’s completely exposed to him. Her hair is askew, her chest is heaving, lips red from wine and his bruising kisses.

He leans over her once more, mouth poised just over her ear as he whispers, “Clarke. I am not a patient man.”

And then he’s closer, biting savagely on her shoulders, neck, breasts, ripping the red wedding dress off her body. Literally, it’s appearing in shreds next to her.

She’s pushing at him. Or perhaps pulling him closer.

She’s saying, “Stop.” Or perhaps it is, “Don’t stop.”

At one point she’s pretty sure that she hits him, that he holds her hands over her head and kiss her so deeply her head spins.

And now he’s inside of her and her nails are clawing down his back and her legs are wrapped around his waist. Her moans are dirty and pleading in his ear, she doesn’t even recognize the person arching desperately into him, begging, _ohyespleaseyes._

Bellamy is fucking her hard and fast and deep. He feels so good. She has no idea what was in the wine, but he feels so good. Nothing has ever felt this good, even that first time with—

It’s burning. He’s vicious enough that it hurts just _perfectly,_ he’s looking straight into her eyes, one hand on the bed to steady himself and the other a firm grip on her neck. He’s saying something she, yet again, does not understand, but its sounds so dirty that when she comes it’s with a strangled cry, eyes shut tight.

She only briefly realizes that he’s coming inside her, doesn’t even care as she drift off to sleep.

\---

She wakes up, and thinks it’s a hangover. She’s alone in the large bed, but not in the room. Her mother is coming in with wide eyes and a set jaw, and Clarke has the decency to be embarrassed because she’s naked and sore and her fucking wedding dress is in tatters around her.

Abby shoves a mug into her hands, completely clinical as she ignores her daughter’s sex hair and dark hickeys. At her confused look, Abby insist, _“Drink.”_

At soon as the smell hits her nose, she realizes.

It is the tea they give young women back in Camp Jaha, one of the first things traded from the grounders when that alliance was formed. She looks up into her mother’s pleading, worried gaze and gulps it quickly, relaxing shakily into the embrace Abby folds around her.

Suddenly, she’s having second thoughts.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There are no demons the two of us cannot slay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was surprised at how many people liked it, so I wrote more. It is a short chapter, though.
> 
> Trigger Warnings (!!!) for violence, dub-con, angst, implied character death, nightmares, implied infertility.

Her mother leaves, and she falls asleep in the light, airy blankets. She sleeps solidly, and that is always a bad sign. Because then? She dreams, vividly.

She’s on the ground. Some of her dreams are in space, gasping for air that isn’t there, fingers scraping against the metal walls, searching for someone, anyone.

But now? She’s on the ground, surrounded by bodies. Her bodies. Empty vessals that she carved out. The flesh, muscles? They are gone. All that’s left are aged and crumbling bones, crushed and mingling with the dust beneath her feet. She’s stopped trying to step over them a long time ago, knows that no matter where she treads, she’ll never be rid of them.

There is nothing but dust in the air, thick like fog, she can see nothing beyond the death, the smell in her nose is charred flesh and bones and dirt.

Clarke walks miles and miles over the bones, and reaches what she is looking for, what’s she’s always looking for. The only fresh body.

His hair is dark and falling over his face, eyes just closed, wound still bleeding. Fear and regret grip her heart as she brushes his hair out of his closed eyes. The pain is fresh, just like the wound. Clarke is pretty sure it won’t ever go away.

\---

She jolts awake, with a gasp. Her skin is  crawling coating with a layer of sweat, and Octavia is at her bedside, watching her with fierce eyes that remind her so much of someone she used to care about. The resemble is scary, and, if possible, makes her heart beat faster

Octavia speaks, “You’re afraid.”

Clarke gazes shutters a bit, she grips her sheets around her, pull them closer around her naked body.

“Fear is a demon. If you tell yourself you are not afraid,” Octavia stands, like a soldier, and Clarke realizes, she’s being kind, “you will slay the demon.”

Something in Clarke wants desperately to believe her, but no amount of courage can slay guilt, or shame. Even so, Clarke nods. The younger girl nods back, once, sternly, and after that. The moment gets awkward. She clears her throat.

“Are you with child, yet?” she asks, bluntly.

Clarke’s eyes widen, and horrified, she replies, “I…don’t know.”

Octavia nods, clinically, then, eyes stirring with emotions, hands wringing, she looks at Clarke. “Someone told me once that a woman knows immediately. If she is with child. There is no uncertainty.” She visibly swallows, and Clarke detects some…longing in her voice. Something like that. She suddenly realizes, that if family was so important to them, why didn’t Octavia have children? Clarke knew she was married to Lincoln, was not sure how long they’d been together. Perhaps it was because she was too young?

She doubted that. The girl commanded an army, even though she was only seventeen. Age didn’t seem like an issue.

Clarke just shrugs, carefully, trying not to give anything away, “I guess I’m not certain.”

Octavia nods, almost to herself, and walks away, and only when she leaves does Clarke breathe out and think about the implications of what she and Abby just did.

\---

Servants come in with food, and draw her a bath in a large tube that looks as if it were carved from marble. The water is steaming, feels amazing on her sore muscles when she slips in, and though they insist on bathing her, Clarke orders them with red cheeks to leave her alone. She sinks to the bottom of the tub, closes her eyes, and deprives herself of light and air. Under the water she feels nothing, sees nothing. For a moment, she has absolution, and almost regrets lifting herself out of the water.

When she wipes the water from her face and opens her eyes, Bellamy is there, an amused smile on his lips, leaned casually against the outside of her tub. His fingers dip dangerously in the water, and her heart races.

“I wasn’t supposed to see you until later this evening,” he comments absently, swirling his fingers absently, voice faint and deep, “But, I couldn’t resist. Besides. The traditions are moot. Either you are pregnant, or not,” he shrugs.

She takes a deep breath as he holds out a large, thick cloth for her, not even bothering to look away from her naked form as she takes it from him and wraps it around herself.

“So…the traditions…” she makes her way over to the desk, just to get away from him, the lust and dread swirling around inside her.

“Like I said. Moot. You’re to be surrounded by females for most of the day, it’s meant to make sure you conceive,” his voice is coming closer, “Moot.”

His front is against her, and Clarke grits her teeth, “What about the wine?”

He chuckles, as if he is bored with the question, “Also a tradition. Made from seeds and fruits that induce lust and euphoria.” A hand slips unto her waist, his mouth is gliding up her neck to her ear.

Clarke’s eyes only flutter close for a second, she swears. “Stop,” she orders sternly.

Bellamy only laughs again, and it enrages her so much she loses herself for a moment and pushes his hand from her waist, only gasp in surprise when he spins her around. The struggle last a second, and the smirk on his face is fucking infuriating, how did she ever think he was charming? The wool slips to the floor, she’s halfway on the desk, one of his hands is gripping her wrist tight, and—

Before she can even think, she has something pointed in her hand from the stone desk. It’s a small knife, barely anything, almost a letter opener, and it’s pointed at his jugular.

Surprise registers in his eyes for a second, and then, amazingly, there is pride and adoration in them.

The smile on his face is so genuine she can’t help but look at him incredulously, and he says, “Four arms. Four legs. Two faces.”

Bellamy leans in, unbothered by the blade that has caused a small cut in his neck, and she has to draw it back to keep from stabbing him. His mouth is on hers, hot and gentle. Before she knows it her hand is empty, and she’s winding both of them through his thick, dark hair. Her skin is damp and cold, but she feels warm pressed up against his chest. She’s being lifting fully unto the desk, and her mind is telling her this is a horrible idea. Her body, on the other hand, is saying, is it? Because it doesn’t feel that way. It feels---

This is terrible. Horrible. But something in Clarke craves it. It clears her mind of everything else, and frankly, it feels so good to be wanted by someone, no matter how intrusive and obsessive and inexplicable the want is.

And the best part? He’s so unafraid of it. And she certainly isn’t used to that.

This time, she scratches her nails mercilessly down his back, like the claws of a hellcat. She fights more, they end up on the bed, and she’s straddling him, grinding her hips hard and fast into his. There’s an impossible feeling of him filling and stretching her, the grip of his large hands, the burn of his eyes and the incredulousness of the breathless smirk on his face.

\---

The nightmares happen again. She wakes startled, screaming, visions of someone she’ll never ever get to love, and another person she doesn’t want to love. But, her heart is a traitor. And she’s bound to her, bound to grief and regret and betrayal.  Bellamy reaches for her in the night, telling to breathe, _breathe._

“I see them everywhere,” she gasps out, eyes threatening to spill with tears, heart gripped with grief. “Everywhere I look. They won’t leave me alone.”

Clarke doesn’t even really know what she’s talking about.

There’s the tiniest bit of alarm in his face as his holds her, speaking to her in that language so flowy it rests her heart when she concentrates on it. She lets his voice sooth her, melt her, and for a moment, she feels nothing. No bleeding holes inside her.

They spend the rest of the early morning walking through desert gardens. She cannot sleep, and the moon is still out when he leads her into them. It’s beautiful, filled with color, and even after all of it. She thinks she’d still rather be down her, broken and beaten, with all this beauty. When they get to the middle, there is a small oasis, glittering in the moonlight. And she lets him strip her down and pull her inside. It’s oddly warm.

Bellamy lifts her in the water, her legs locked around his waist, his fingers skimming against her wet back, her arms circling his shoulders.

And she finds herself asking, against his neck, “Do you have demons?”

“We all have demons, Clarke,” is his answer, quite matter-of-fact.

“Demons you can’t slay?” is her response, quiet, tired. Clarke rest her full weight on him, and he holds her nonetheless. She wants to think it means something, but the water is making her light, as well.

The pause next has not much in it. Somehow, she can imagine the dark, pleased look in his eyes. then again, she hasn’t known him long at all. But, something in her wants to give into whatever this is, because fuck it. There’s nothing else to do. Nothing else but war and death and melting into a dangerous, powerful stranger.

His answer is, _“There are no demons the two of us cannot slay.”_

She thinks about that, for a second. If, at the end, winning a war she intends to start will make her demons go away.

She looks up at the stars, tiny and bright and plentiful, can’t imagine she was up there once. Can’t imagine life was simple. It was just her and Wells, carefree children, watching old football games, playing chess, smiling and laughing. Fate, if it exist, had other plans.

Her name is being called in the distance, urgently, and cranes her neck. Her whole body colors pink, because,

“Mom.”

\---

“What are you doing?” Abby hisses, with disbelief.

What _is_ she doing?

Clarke pauses, runs a hand through her wet hair, because honestly? She has no idea.

Her mother’s room is smaller than her own, but with the same low beds, open windows. She shivers, because she’s just donned a slip of a kaftan-like dress, most of her body is still damp.

 _“Clarke,”_ Abby grabs her by the arm, and stiffens. Clarke notices her mother’s gaze on her bruised wrists. The memory (though faint) of Bellamy holding them tight above her head, and she pulls her arm away.

The look Abby gives her is pitying, mixed with anger. Clarke can’t stand it.

“I have everything under control,” she tries to reassure her, firmly, voice commanding and cold, but her mother knows her better.

Abby speaks carefully, like she always does now, as if not to upset her while she tries to control her, “Perhaps. But, it was difficult getting that tea to you, and you giving into your impulses are going to make things that much harder. Do you understand me?”

Impulses? God. Clarke wants to laugh out loud. She is the master of impulse control. This isn’t about impulse control. She has no idea what it’s about.

But, she does understand where Abby is coming from. She’s on thin ice. The contraceptives last about forty-eight hours. She’d have to keep drinking them, secretly, every two days to avoid becoming pregnant. If she was found out, Bellamy would see it as a betrayal. She’s seen his fierce anger, barely concealed behind burning black eyes, passion overflowing. He’d have her killed. The alliance would be over. Her friends would be dead.

Even so, the thought of her holding a child in her hands? It gives her anxiety just to think about it. She takes a deep breath. And she can’t win a war with a kid. It was impossible.

But, it was even more impossible to say no to him.

“Difficult, but not impossible,” Clarke decides, and ignores the look of disbelief on her mother’s face as she walks out.

\---

Lincoln points her to a room in the large palace they use for sparing. In it arrows and swords line the wall, straw dummies with holes in them on the other. Her shoulders are back as she enters, grateful Raven is nowhere to be found.

Clarke watches the two of them fight, brother and sister. They say it is a sparring match; Clarke sees a real fight.

Octavia is fast—almost impossibly. She’s light like a bird, uses her brother’s weight against him as she flips over him with one hand over his shoulder, slicing a thin line across the middle of his back as she lands. She fights with two short, thin swords.  She’s graceful like a dancer, but tireless, ferocious like a tiger. The look on her face is concentrated passion and anger. An inability to give up.

Oddly enough, she is not winning.

Bellamy isn’t as quick on his feet, but he’s strong, and more precise than her. His sword is slightly larger, more curved. He uses his brute strength, elbowing her in the neck so hard Clarke winces. While the girl recovers, Bellamy actually laughs, bruised, out of breath, swings his sword casually in one hand, “You’ve always been too wild with your movements,” he says, walking a circle around her, “That’s your weakness, always has been, sister. You let your guard down.”

While Octavia gasps for breath, Bellamy spot Clarke, crossing the room with a cocky grin that makes her roll her eyes.

“You’re looking for me.”

Clarke nods, then hesitates, “Your back.”

He looks over his shoulder, as if he can see it, then shrugs, the thrill of a fight still in his eyes as he throws his next words to his sister in a taunt, “A scratch!”

Octavia’s angry words (in that odd Latin) turn into a gasping cough.

Clarke tries not to laugh at her, “Lincoln told me where you were,” then she smiles, trying for teasing, “And someone else told me to slay my demons.”

He stares at her for a moment, sighs just a bit, “Not necessary,” he says simply.

Clarke frowns.

“You’ll be with child soon,” Bellamy clarifies, “It’s dangerous for the both of you.”

She opens her mouth to protest, without anything to say, because she really won’t be pregnant, but thankfully, he continues to speak, moving closer to her, his scent over taking her senses, “You don’t need to wield a sword to be strong,” he tells her quietly, fierce and sincere. “You have strength. Also. I hear your ability with a gun is significant.”

She snorts, trying to ignore the emotions rising in her and the searching nature of his eyes. When she finally reaches them, they bore into her, deep and intrusive, like always.

“Most demons we cannot physically touch, and so we cannot kill them with a sword. But, there are other ways,” he assures her.

Clarke swallows, looking away, “Maybe for right now, we focus on the one we can kill with a sword. Or a gun.”

A slow, dangerous grin spreads across his face, and she knows he’s thinking about blood, “Yes.”

There is only a split second before his face changes, so suddenly, she’s confused. His smile becomes a stony, concentrated glare, and in one fluid, careful motion, he turns around and swipes with his sword, defecting a blade that would have pierced her skull.

When she connects eyes with Octavia, Clarke sees that the girl only has one sword in her hand. The other is one the floor near Bellamy’s feet. Green orbs burn into her own, and Clarke sees something else there, far different from the inch of kindness Octavia had showed her not a few days ago, and she's wondering if the girl overheard their conversation.

“You let your guard down,” Octavia calls, mockingly.

And then with a little flick of her eyebrow, she says, _“I know your weakness, too.”_

Clarke expects to see tense lines between Bellamy’s shoulders, but she doesn’t expect the dark chuckle he gives as he stalks toward Octavia like a hunter, fingers tight around the handle of his sword.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. The new chapter for 'people around me don't understand' is almost done, but because I hate myself, this muse won't get out of my head, so. It might be a minute.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "...The people we love, the people we care for. This is what’s important. This is why we’re fighting. Don’t forget that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long. It was all written, just not edited. That being said, I suck at editing, and I don't have a beta, so please ignore my plethora of mistakes. Also, the summary is the most important line (in my opinion) of each chapter. Since it's just a quote, it's not really a spoiler. But if you don't like just, just uh...skip it? I just have fun picking out my own quotes because I'm terribly self-involved. 
> 
> Trigger warnings (!!): implied sex, implied infertility, violence, panic attacks, language, referenced child abuse.

Clarke only slightly mentions that Octavia doesn’t like her one day, as she and Bellamy watch her and Raven spare. Bellamy lifts an eyebrow, like she’s being silly, and when she mentions the incident a couple of days ago, _“she tried to kill me--”_

All he replies with isa little (oddly fond, of her or Octavia she has no idea) smile and, _“Any yet? You’re alive.”_

Raven is getting good, really good. The girl had never been one to give up, and she’s wiry, but strong, more graceful than a mechanic. She’d only trained under Indra for a little while, but she was strong, better at hand to hand combat than a sword (better with a gun than a sword, honestly).

She feels a little twinge in her heart at the way Raven bumps shoulders with the other girl, rolling her eyes a bit when Octavia looks over at her a smile that equal parts mischievous and curiously fond, like she didn’t expect to like Raven, with her hair still braided back in a ponytail, same grin, one that hid mystery and genius. Too bad. Everyone likes Raven.

And that hurts as well, tiny tides of pain lapping at her chest.  Because she does understand, because even Clarke does not even forgive herself for the things she’s done. Lines that she’s crossed, a city burned to the ground, charred buildings, people that she trusted that she shouldn’t have, people she’d loved but shouldn’t have. Even complex romantic lines that they never got uncrossed, like Raven loves Finn who loves Clarke who loves…God. If there is one. He’s cruel. He’s letting them destroy each other.

Even so, she can’t help wishing Raven would turn that signature shiny smile on her again. Or at least turn to her in general. Clarke feels as if she took that from her. But, even in the face of it all, it seems almost…insignificant.

Later on, when she’s talking to her mother, she disagrees, “Once you talked to me about the difference between surviving and living,” she starts, as they talk in hushed tones in the library. She had been pouring over books in Zona Morta’s language with Kane, but the man is nowhere to be found. There is still an open, hand-written book in front of her, marked off with a bit of ribbon deep in the spine. It seems like so long ago that Abby looked at Kane distrust. Now, they were close.

A lot of things have happened that way. In almost a year since they landed on Earth, 99 wide-eyed kids, people have died and left and started to distrust and trust one another.

Clarke sighs, “I did.” She talked about that to someone else, as well.

“You did,” Abby repeats, the soft and stern of a mother in her voice, “Your relationship with Raven doesn’t matter because you think have more things on your plate than repairing a friendship. That’s not necessarily true. The people we love, the people we care for. This is what’s important. This is why we’re fighting. _Don’t forget that_.”

Clarke supposes she’s right. She is right. But, it’s easier to harden her heart against the pain than feel it. That’s how she gets through the days.

That, and sleeping with someone she doesn’t trust.

She barely even remembers that first night. But every night after that is bruised into her vividly, painfully marked on her skin. And right after, with Bellamy’s fingers rubbing hard and fondly into her back, her thighs, the feeling of his lips dragging on the back of her neck, both of them struggling to catch his breath, her eyelids dropping and her body sedated—she really does feel a little better.

She doesn’t trust him. Not at all. How can she trust anyone, let alone someone who cuts of a person’s head and sends it to their girlfriend? And in truth, she might just be waiting for him to lose control and cut her own head off. Maybe he’ll get too carried away and the hand around her neck will tighten and tighten and she’ll fade away.

A large part of Clarke hates uncertainty, but that has become her life ever since 99 kids landed on Earth. At that moment, she was uncertain, watching Nathan Miller with his hand on the door to the dropship, voice caught in her throat as fresh air into her lungs. Anxiety had gripped her heart, and she’d been so afraid she would die. And then light streamed in. Light unlike anything she’d ever seen. She’d been blinded by it. And then, Miller had dropped to his feet out of the ship, and she seen him tilt his head up to the impossibly trees above him, and when he laughed, loud and echoing, something rushed out of her chest.

Nothing has changed, since then.

Days later, she sits down for a meeting. There’s wine being poured, no one on her side touches it. She has absolutely no idea what happened with everyone else, but if the uncomfortable looks are any indication, she doesn’t want to know.

On one side of the table, Bellamy sits with Octavia, Lincoln, and a man she doesn’t know. He’s sandy haired, dark, and slim--almost unassuming. Half of his face is covered, all that’s visible are eyes and thick brows. Clarke sits up in her seat with Finn and Wells, and Raven, who is looking at the man in caution.

“Tybalt,” Bellamy answers before Wells can even question, “He’s been spying on Lexa and her clan for several months. He’s returned to report.”

Clarke tries not to frown, but she can’t help the glare she directs at Bellamy because she wasn’t told any of this. And something tells her that the Trigakru weren’t the only ones he was watching. But she looks toward the man, now understanding his unassuming appearance, and for some reason fact that he looks oddly familiar, but all he does is give her a deep bow with his head, if not somewhat hesitantly. Tybalt leans toward Octavia, who doesn’t make a move, just listens intently as the man whispers almost silently in her ear, and then straightens in his seat.

“The Trigakru are moving toward your camp. Taking more hunting ground, establishing boundaries without your notice.”

Clarke stiffens. For months they’d spent their time in the walls of their Camp, only venturing out for periodic, carefully planned hunting trips. They’d been careful, extremely so, until Sterling and some others were strung up in the woods, in an area they’d hunted several times before. And then Clarke got angry.

“They’re trying to close us in,” Clarke realizes absently, even more angry.

Tybalt leans into whisper in Octavia’s ear once more, and she hears Finn sigh almost inaudibly, most likely annoyed that the man won’t speak directly to them.

“You’re right,” Octavia says, maybe a little unpleasantly, “They’re restless. And Lexa’s trying to gain control of her people, again. They don’t trust her,” the girl pauses, her green eyes lift up to the ceiling, and then she turns to her brother, says her next words with triumph, “They lack confidence in her strength.”

Clarke realizes with some gratification that it is her fault. And it mixes with some guilt, because she only had to kill hundreds of people for it to happen.

As if realizing what is going through her mind, a malevolent, satisfied smile spreads over Bellamy’s face, “An army is only as strong as the trust it places in its leader,” he seems to be talking to Octavia, who nods hurriedly as she turns to him, almost like she’s taking down mental notes, “If that bond is weak, there is no bond. There are no grey areas. Either they trust her completely or they don’t. When worst comes to worst, they won’t follow her unless they’ aren’t sure of her capabilities,” he turns to Tybalt, who stands straighter under his gaze, “Be certain,” he says, deadly calm, with a dark edge, no room for error.

Without any prompting, he stands, bowing his head, eyes lingering on Clarke before he walks away, graceful and quick.

Clarke speaks up, “If they _are_ are closing in on us, we need more guards. More protection.”

The reaction from across the table is not inspiring, Lincoln opens his mouth to speak, and then closes it right after. Octavia snorts and rolls her eyes. Interestingly, Bellamy looks on, elbows resting on the table, hands folding as he peers at her.

Annoyed (angry, almost, but she’s keeping her cool), “If we’re losing territory, then we’re losing food, not just leverage. Sooner or later we’re going to boxed in and…”

She makes an incredulous face at the lack of response she’s getting from people she sacrifies to ally with. She cannot help cutting herself off, unable to stomach Octavia’s scornful glare that the young girl does not even _try_ to hide. Clarke stands abruptly, eyes boring into the girl, shaking off the insistent hand Wells places on her wrist, “What is going on here?” she asks, fed up, “I was promised an alliance. I was promised a partnership. Protection,” she turns to Bellamy, whose expression is unreadable, but extremely interested. She lets her voice go low and dangerous, like _Lexa’s_ , and when she speaks next, she can feel Raven’s head snap toward her in recognition, “If you’re not willing to protect my people like you promised, this alliance is _over_.”

He’s still staring as Octavia stands as well, chair clattering to the floor, her jaw is tense, eyes green flames, _“Excuse me?”_ She looks insulted more than anything.

After a beat, Clarke addresses her, not taking her eyes of Bellamy’s, _“I wasn’t talking to you.”_

What happens next is no fast she doesn’t even realize it—Octavia whips out one of her swords, Lincoln is trying to calm her down, _Raven_ has crossed over Finn to push Clarke behind her, one arm curled back and around her protectively as she stares down Octavia’s blade. Her ponytail is shiny and thick, Clarke thinks absently. Finn has his hand raised, as if trying to calm a wild beast (which Octavia is, she’s spitting venom, taking more to Lincoln than the rest of them). Wells is pleading with Bellamy, who is looking on with infuriating amusement. That _asshole._

 “She is not even _pregnant_ ,” Octavia interrupts her husband rudely, in English, tone biting in more ways than one, “That was the agreement.”

“Octavia,” Lincoln says her name slowly, warning (there’s also something very sad there).

After a tense moment, Octavia begins again, her tone a little mockingly, “With all due respect, _Regina._ You are not sure if you are with child. That was the terms of the agreement.”

“I disagree,” Wells retorts, fighting to stay calm, “The agreement was family—“

“A child was implied!” Octavia insists.

“Was it?” Finn cocks his head with that insufferable smile that Clarke has grown to love, and suddenly she’s so glad she has them with her, especially Raven, who has a tight on her hand, now. Clarke doesn’t remember the last time she held hands with someone. Oh wait.

She and Wells gripping a lever together, Harbingers of Death. That was the last time.

The young commander’s jaw flinches in agitation, “Even so! If we send our soldiers to the front we’re giving away the element of surprise,” she says like, duh, “Lexa has no idea about this alliance. She doesn’t know that two of her greatest enemies have bound against her. We have a field advantage we didn’t have with your camp placement. You gained an advantage in numbers from us. She doesn’t know any of this! Letting go of this information could cost us this war—“

 _“I don’t care,”_ and Clarke gently moves Raven out of her way, looking unflinchingly down the metal of Octavia’s sword, “I _don’t_. And if you think I’ll let you sacrifice my people for your fucking field advantage, _you’d better use that sword.”_

Octavia opens her mouth to argue, but Bellamy puts a hand on her arm. The effect is so instantaneous it shocks Clarke. The girl grows silent, lowers her sword, and almost immediately, visible tension slips from everyone else. She sits down, casting dark looks in their direction, looking sort of like a moody teenager until she raises her jaw defiantly and sits straighter.

“They’re right,” Bellamy announces, speaking up finally tone lace with respect, “We might have had different reasons for starting this alliance, Clarke. But now, your reasons are my reasons,” and, meaningfully, slowly, he declares, “Your people are my people. We’ll send soldiers. Supplies. Anything you need. Clarke?”

For a moment, she feels guilty, because night after night he takes her, she arches into him, and in the morning she gulps down the tea her mother brings her.

“Yes.”

\---

“That was a shitshow,” Raven mutters in exasperation. Clarke knows the girl well enough to recognize the forced nonchalant comment she throws in next, “You good?”

It tightens at Clarke’s chest, and she only spares her a little glance and a stiff nod before following Bellamy and his party of out the room.

 _“Bellamy!”_ At the way she calls his name, dark and commanding, they all turn, Lincoln and Octavia turn around, and she can tell his sister is revving up for another fight, staring at her defiantly. As if he’s aware of the dark glares Octavia is sending her, the hand inching toward one of her swords, he holds up a hand, and Octavia walks away with her husband.

“Yes?” he says, obviously still amused by the show only moments before.

She shakes her head, “You let that get out of hand.”

“Did I?”

“Yes. We’re partners now,” she swallows, trying not roll her eyes at the pleased little smile he gives her, “We have a deal, and you let Octavia threaten that. And no matter how entertaining that was for you, I am _not_ amused.”

Bellamy’s eyes race across her face, and he nods, almost thoughtfully, “It appears not. Nevertheless, there is no harm done. Octavia would never go against my wishes,” he shrugs almost casually, and she’s reminded that he isn’t at all like those Kings in fairytales that she read on the Ark when she was a little girl. Those kings were benevolent, just, they were pure-hearted heroes. Clarke does not think Bellamy is a hero, at all. Then again, neither is she.

She bristles, and she’s sure it’s visible, “Your wishes could have come a bit earlier. She almost killed me.”

Clarke frowns, because right when she says that, Bellamy chokes on a surprised little laugh, as if he cannot believe she’s being serious, “Clarke. If my sister wanted to kill you, _you would be dead.”_

\----

Some horrible happens when they walk through town, and she is greeted by something she didn’t expect. Instead of the whispers, the scared faces, warmth radiates out from the citizens of the town. They call, _“Regina! Regina!”_ reaching for her with smiles and gifts. It is a stark difference from before. So different that Bellamy chuckles at her shocked face.

She’s met with the same love she saw given to Bellamy her first days in _Zona Morta_ , and it sickens her. Because children reach for her, limping little things, quite a few of them with radiation deformities. That she doesn’t mind. The adoration on their faces is something she does. In the market, a frail women gifts her with a necklace make of shiny glass. It’s more beautiful than anything she’s ever seen. It’s sharp, and when she handles it, the glass cuts her hands.

The women speaks in that bastardized Latin, cooing as she wraps Clarke’s hand almost loving. Clarke looks on with wide-eyes, extremely uncomfortable.

“Careful,” Bellamy says in her ear, pausing to give the woman a charming smile, to which she lights up, as if seeing the sun for the first time, “Would you like it?”

“No,” she says immediately, honestly, about to hand the necklace back, but Bellamy steadies her hand, and instead pays the woman a generous amount for it, and by the look on the woman’s face, it is much more than she was expecting, if anything at all.

They continue on, anxiety clenches her heart, and she can see Abby staring warily in the corner of her eye as Clarke bends down and lets a little girl tuck a red desert flower behind her ear. Later when it slips out, tumbles to the ground, she pretends not to notice.

Lincoln leans in with a smile, “A King is like a father. Stern. Unyielding. A Queen is a mother.”

Clarke frowns at this, suddenly sick. She doesn’t want to be a mother. She really, really doesn’t want to be a mother.

 When they get back to the stone palace she excuses herself, almost rushes down the hall until she finds a little corridor where she can breathe. She’s almost hyperventilating at this point, hand on the cool stone of the wall, head spinning in circles. She only barely registers Tybalt, who has appeared from nowhere, and dropped by her side silently. She concentrates on his face, now visible with his shroud down. He’s older than she expected, perhaps in his early thirties. His voice is calm and flat, grounding her even though she has no idea what he is saying, and oddly enough, he’s smoothing back her hair with a shaky, tentative hand.

When she catches her breath, his eyes are wide and appreciative, looking at her as if astonished by what he sees. She’s confused for a minute, and then he gently (nervously) rubs his calloused thumb against the freckle above her lip before pulling away, swallowing uneasily and looking down in embarrassment.

And suddenly, she has a little flashback of bathing in a crystal clear stream, having a conversation with a shirtless, drying Monty, who was against sitting on a smooth rock feet away from her. She’d felt eyes on the back of her neck, and when she turned to Monty, he wasn’t even looking at her. The boy was not only respectful, he was lacking interest in females. The feeling of being watched was so pertinent that she insisted they leave.

Who else had Tybalt been watching for all those months?

_“Clarke.”_

She tears her eyes away the spy’s bottle green and looks in the direction of her voice being called.

Octavia is at her side, suddenly, and it is as if Tybalt was never there, never existed, she wonders if she imaged him, if she imagined that moment by the stream, like she imagined the ghost of a boy she loved haunting her. She recoils instantly from the girl, eyes wide, but—

“You are not afraid. You are okay. You are not afraid.”

In another life, they might have just been friends.

Octavia grips her hands, and before she knows it, she’s saying it with her, “I’m not afraid. I’m okay. I’m not afraid,” over and over until her voice gets stronger, stronger, and she believes it.

Later, they’re in Octavia’s chambers—it’s beautiful, filled with trinkets, pretty objects lining shelves and tables, like a museum or a little girl’s bedroom.

“Why did you help me?” Clarke deadpans, pushing the offered wine away from her. “You don’t trust me. I’m prettu sure you hate me. Why would you—“

“You are so dramatic,” Octavia drawls, almost like the mean girls she used to know at school, and Clarke double-takes for a second, “And self-centered. I do not _hate_ you.”

Clarke frowns, uncertain and wary and she watches Octavia sit across her at the small, round table. She’s still in her light armor, hard pieces mixed with flowing fabric, two swords at her waist and she sits down uncouthly, leaned back in her chair, in a relaxed why Clarke has never seen.

The girl’s gaze is so like her brother Clarke unnerved, a bit because of the eerie resembles but mostly because it is making her skin heat, and that is embarrassing. She reaches the wine she offered Clarke, now that she knows the blonde won’t touch it, and takes a gulp, “You are right about one thing. I don’t trust you,” Octavia lifts her chin, “But that is not because you are not trustworthy. Or strong. It’s because Bellamy trusts you.”

She blinks, careful to hide her expression. Perhaps Bellamy did not know his sister as well as he thought. Perhaps if he knew Octavia doubted his judgement...She did not want to think that. She did not want to think _that way_. She did not want to be that person, but she could not stop her mind from working out in a couple of seconds that Bellamy might be easier to control if he did not trust his sister that much. If he knew (or thought) Octavia doubted him.

Octavia hesitates, looking down at the bronze cup in her hands, and then lifts her eyes to Clarke’s. What she sees there is honestly. Determination.

“Bellamy has always taken care of me. Ever since I was a baby. My mother placed me in his arms and told him that I was his responsibility. And he promised that he would always look after me, always. He even _named_ me,” she says this last part with a fond little smile, eyes lighting up in delight before looking down, everting them so Clarke cannot see, “When my mother died, all we had was each other. He taught me everything I know. He taught me to read. Taught me to me to fight. My…” she bites her lips, hard, trying to contain something like anger, “The man who calls himself my father was violent, and Bellamy acted as my shield. Putting himself in my father’s way so I wouldn’t be punished.”

Clarke sits up straighter, both enraptured and confused by the story, and somehow, her heart aches for a girl she never knew, who watched her mother die and her brother get beaten.

At once, something else that reminds her so much of Bellamy comes to Octavia’s eyes, a sick, twisted delight, “Once, my father did hit me. He struck me across my face. It was nothing, compared to what he usually did to my brother. Even so, Bellamy killed him. Sliced him from his belly to his throat,” she smiles wider, and Clarke’s own stomach turns, “He didn’t think twice about defending me. He never has.”

Clarke licks her dry lips, somehow it’s so hot they can never not be chapped, “Why are you telling me this?” she asks, quietly.

Octavia sighs, almost annoyed, “Dramatic, self-centered, and _stupid._ Listen to me. You’re strong. Capable. And in another life, perhaps we would be friends. Perhaps I would trust you. But Bellamy trusts you, and when he’s with you, he lets his guard down. _I have to be his shield_.”

It makes sense. And it is sweet, it not a bit twisted. Octavia has to be wary of her because her brother is not. Clarke wants to lament suddenly, why can’t everything be simple? Why can they not be certain?

“At the meeting…”

“I have to look after his interests. Our interests. In the end what he says is law. He is King of _Zona Morta_. But I will challenge him at every turn, because he needs to see both sides if he’s to make the right decision.”

Clarke suddenly remembers her first moments in _Zona Morta,_ Octavia whispering furiously in her brother’s ear, and leans forward at this, annoyed, suddenly, “And what if he makes the wrong decision?”

“He won’t,” Octavia says simply, eyes now not looking away from her own.

“How do you know?”

“Because now there are two voices in his ear. His _sister_. And his _Queen_.”

Her skin prickles as if it is cold, and Clarke rises, unable to stomach that. She moves to leave, unexcused, and figures because she’s a fucking queen now she really doesn’t have to be. Clarke is unable to wrap her mind around the continuation of self-serving mind games Octavia and her brother play. Half of the time she figures they are sport, and the other half there is something deeper at work. She stops at the door, realizing something, and turns around.

“Octavia,” she calls out in the same tone she’d said Bellamy’s name days before, albeit a bit quieter, and Octavia straightens instinctively, raising an eyebrow.

But Clarke faces her fully, and even though she won’t stoop to turning Bellamy against his sister, she will stoop to this, _“I’m your Queen, too.”_

A dark look flashes across Octavia’s face, and before she turns to leave the room, Clarke swears she saw the younger girl’s mouth raise in a familiar smirk.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise the next chapter won't take another thousand years.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He’s my best friend. He’s my brother."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I was motivated as hell by all the reviews to actually get this chapter out. I've had the first scene written for months, I just couldn't get over my block. So, here is the result of me just going for it. It's very short, it's sort of a Wells chapter (who remains one of my favorite characters to this day), and it's mostly smut. The end also gets a bit dark.
> 
> Also, I hear a lot of things going on in the fandom about tagging, though no one has really come for me personally. Apparently, even if a story has a significant amount of Clexa in it, if it's endgame is Bellarke (just like this story, if anyone is wondering) people have been dragged for tagging it as such. Or vice-versa. Which I think is dumb, but, anyway. Getting off my soapbox.
> 
> Trigger Warnings (!!!) explicit sexual content, language, violence, domestic abuse (a little fight at the end, but no one gets bruised).

After that night with Octavia, her sleep is devoid of terrifying nightmares, merely scattered with ominous, warped memories. One night she dreams of stitching together Jasper’s arm. They are in the dropship, and she remembers this, at least part of it, back when things were relatively simple and he was just a kid with big eyes and a bigger mouth. However, in this version he’s dressed in the same clothing he was dressed in when they left Mount Weather, blue shirt, shaking, eyes haunted and present and filled with tears. When she wakes up she can hardly remember what he said to her in the dream, but somehow she knows it is different from the memory she has. 

Light streams in from the open windows, more passages than anything, and since she’d arrived she was a little conscious of the openness of the place she’s staying in. There are doors on bedrooms (thin panels more than anything, it is makes her cringe to know that everyone in the stone palace heard them fucking on their wedding night), but the windows are open, and the bright sun almost always chases her sleep away. It does make for a beautiful picture, and though she hasn’t drawn in so long, she wants to keep the light curtains, faded red they are almost pink, flowing the light breeze, forever.

This time, when she opens her eyes Bellamy is staring at her. She jumps. It’s partly because she’s not used to sleeping in bed with another person. Not at all. As a child she’d crawl in with her parents when she was scared. And for a while, after the Mountain, she and her mother slept in the same room, and she was grateful, when she woke up sweating and heart pounding, for the sleeping body across the room.

Now, though, with Bellamy resting his head on his hand, elbow in the bed, eyes unblinking on her face, _she jumps._ It’s entirely too close for comfort, and regardless of how sexually intimate she’s been with him, there is something very disturbing about how comfortable he’s gotten with her, but then again, there was no hesitation in his eyes _the first day they met._

She supposes it is worth it. He’s sent the troops. Food. Clothing. Even things she considers meaningless, like flowers, and jewelry, and trinkets. And amazingly, books. She’d widened her eyes at this, and Bellamy had smirked like he knew she’d love it. Her mother and Kane left with the supplies, Abby with new healing techniques and Kane with appreciating for a different culture, logs of history, and old stories thought lost.  

Even so, she is still not at ease. Not nearly, especially since she’s naked beside him and his arm is over her bare stomach. He’s warm, unbearably so, so she almost always kicks of the blankets that cover them in the night.

“What did you dream of?” he asks, matter-of-factly, soft.

Clarke furrows her brow, unsure how to answer, if he was even asking a question, “Just a memory,” is the best thing to describe it, “Like, um, a combination of two. I don’t know. Why?”

Bellamy continues to look at her, “You slept fitfully. Less than usual, though, so I was curious. I’ve always wondered what you saw behind your lids at night.”

Clarke frowns, and if not for the situation, it might be almost cheesy and romantic, _what do you dream about?_

“What did my sister say to you?”

At this, she rolls her eyes. Because of course his sister would tell him about their conversation. They were eerily close, eerily similar. She knows Bellamy well enough to know that dark look in Octavia’s eyes and that smirk that promises something deeply disturbing. Somehow, she wonders how Lincoln, who has the scars of a warrior but the gentle disposition of a diplomat, came to love someone like Octavia. The girl was hard, with dusk in her eyes, and somehow the story she told Clarke of a little girl whose whole world was her older brother makes her want to connect the dots.

“She told me about her father,” Clarke says simply, observing as Bellamy’s eyes grow a little shadowy, “How you killed him to protect her.”

He settles down onto the thin, but oddly comfortable mattress, “His death was long overdue. Frankly, I was always disappointed that I waited so long.”

If possibly, she is even more uncomfortable, with this man who talks about killing so easily. She is reminded of a time when this was not her life. When she first landed on earth, and Nathan’s laugh echoed in the woods and all she thought of was freedom and hope.

“He wasn't your father?”

He gives a dark little chuckle, something like a breath out of his nose as he looks in the distance, drawing memories forward, and Clarke sees them pooling in his dark eyes, “No. I’m a bastard. He claimed Octavia, though everyone knew she was not his either. I’m pretty certain he knew, as well.”

Gears work in her mind, and realization in the form of a tentative little thought forms in her mind, “Was he the previous king?”

Bellamy smiles, sort of sweetly, like he’s admiring her skills of deduction, and it really creeps her out, “You’re correct. Octavia had more claim to the throne than I did, but she was young. Too young. Only nine years old. At first I planned to step down when she grew older, but—“

“You like the power?” Clarke asks dryly, with a raised eyebrow.

This brings a sharp, short laugh from Bellamy’s throat, and his voice goes deep and warm as he moves closer to her, caging her in with one hand on the other side of her head. With the tone rough and slippery, like dark chocolate, he asks her, “Do you not like power?”

She is unable to prevent the sharp twinge of lust the shoots through her, “Not really,” she answers, once she has her composure back.

He nods thoughtfully, “That is certainly a shame. You do well with it,” that last part is slow as he puts a firm hand to the juncture of her neck and shoulder, and uses his thumb to push firmly into her bobbing throat. Panic rises in her just as quickly as the want does, _“Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.”_  

The way he says it sounds like a quote, and then she remembers, “William Shakespeare.”

The corner of his mouth lifts a little, like he is pleased she knows this. 

“Was it difficult? To have everyone doubt you, at first, when you killed…how did you gain their trust?” 

Bellamy takes a deep breath, and busies himself pressing open mouth kisses on her sternum, his tongue hot as it darts out to taste her skin. Clarke head falls back on its own accord.

“Don’t worry,” he says huskily into her jaw, “Our child will have no one to oppose her. I will cut down anyone who threatens her.”

She tries not to think about his words and her lies, instead, losing herself in the feeling of the calloused fingers and blunt nails digging into her thigh, as he hikes it up and over his hip. She doesn’t try to stop herself from wrapping it around his waist and pulling him in closer, and then she bites her lip because his erection bumps against the very center of her.

He hums absently, distracted, still nosing her jaw and neck and breathing her in. Bellamy drags his lips down her body. He’s languid in the way he touches her, and it can almost be mistaken for gentleness, taking his time to map every inch, the hand resting at the hollow of her throat making a path to her left breast as his mouth encircles the right.

There is no use trying to deny it, so she closes her eyes, loses herself in sensation. The red glare on her eyelids from the sun; warm like a kiss on her face. The sounds of her heavy breathing and the groans coming from the back of Bellamy’s throat. Feeling the sting of her bottom lip between her teeth. His _tongue_ swirling slow and warm on her nipple. The wetness in her center.

He travels lower, and lower, and she’s so far gone she doesn’t mind when spreads he legs wider and starts to place bites along the inside of her thighs. But they are not the bruising, violent, possessive bites. The ones that almost scream _, you’re mine!_ They’re firm and sucking, like he’s just tasting her, and then he does.

Clarke lets her head fall back and a surprise moan escapes her, because God, if there is one. 

He chuckles against her cunt for a moment until she scrambles to tug on his hair needily. It’s a sensation she’s never felt, but she likes it.

Then he’s devouring her, like she’s the best meal he’s ever had, groaning as he holds her hips down with large hands. Not just licking, anymore, working his jaw as he takes a moment to suck at her lips and clit, and the noises are so obscene, and she’s sort of embarrassed how impossibly turned on it makes her. 

It starts to build up against her better judgement, and when she comes, hard, he keeps sucking, and _sucking_ at her clit, flicking his tongue simultaneously, despite Clarke is trying to push him away. And in something like futility, her hands retreat to the bedding around her head, hips grinding as he makes her come _again._

She’s sweaty and sedated and vibrating, hardly anything but a mass of nerves when he drags his mouth up her body, and his time, it’s what she’s used to, hard, sharp, driven by something like rage. He noses her jaw to the side and _sucks_ as she trembles violently and he runs a warm, large hand up and down her damp body and up again, squeezing her breast.

Honestly, Clarke’s given up trying to understand him. Bellamy is often quite good about not talking in Latin when she or her people are around, or when it’s just the two of them. Unlike Finn, she hasn’t quite gotten the hang of the language, though she is decidedly better than when she first came to _Zona Morta_. But, when they’re like this, and he’s fueled by lust, eyes boring into her own, he slips up. Or perhaps does it on purpose to infuriate her.

“Wait…” she moans quietly, hands useless on either side of her head, and she’s rewarded by of growl of words she could not possible put together in this situation, especially since he put them right in her ear. The sharp twinge of lust is painful, and she squeezes her eyes shut. She feels cold and almost disappointed (but definitely relieved) when his heat leaves her, but when she opens her eyes, she realizes it is only so he can sit up on his knees. She only gets a glance of his cock, hard, and big, because he takes her legs and puts them over his shoulders, lifting her by the hips. Clarke doesn’t have time to react before he enters her, she is so wet he fills her with one stroke, and hits something so deep inside her she actually cries out, skin fucking sparking all over.

She’s crying out wantonly, so lost in the fast and hard of feeling of his cock stretching and filling and fucking her deep that there’s almost no room left in her lungs. He’s using her hips as leverage to anchor and snap his forward viciously. They go on like that until he growls, almost frustrated, and sets her hips down, her legs are still over his shoulder as he looms over her, practically bends her in half.

This is more familiar, but, if anything, it’s overwhelming. The heat and smell of him crowding her. Again, in her ear, he’s speaking in a way that’s almost animalistic in her ear, but what she does not know. That, and the hand gripping her face, his cock driving into her in a relentless pace, the sun streaming in from the windows, the claustrophobic feeling of him surround him…

Her orgasm hits her hard, and somewhere in her screaming, she’s pretty sure she says his name, because he’s swearing, laughing, pounding into her after that, coming inside her, filling her, marking her. 

Clarke breathes heavy, trying to suck in oxygen greedily into her flat, empty lungs, a difficult task when Bellamy is collapsed on top of her, but he’s running his mouth along her collarbone, and it’s calming. 

But, suddenly, she realizes something, and her heart skips a beat, jolting her:

Bellamy had referred to their future child as a female. 

—

“Do you think we should go home, too?” Wells asks. His dark skin is even and covered in a light sheen of sweat. Clarke herself is constantly flushed, skin red from the heat, underarms moist. Strands of her hair stick to her forehead. Wells, on the other hand, looks beautiful and strong in the blazing sun of _Zona Morta_ , eyes dark and clear. He’s a grounding force, one of the few people that keep her locked on the ground, and everyone else, everything else, threats to float her into space. At least she’d be with her dad.

Clarke shakes her head, “We can’t.” They’re on the balcony, overlooking the trade city, markets and houses in the square, people bustling and moving carts, weaving around each other.

“I know,” he says, and it seems reluctant, eyes closing briefly before he turns to her, “Maybe not me. Maybe not Raven, or Finn. But, you should.”

At this, Clarke’s gaze snaps to him in alarm. No. No, no, no. There is a moment suddenly, something locked and inescapable in her mind. _It’s worth the risk._ It wasn’t. And she’s back there again, forcing her emotions back and making her heart into steel under Lexa’s suggestions. Dealing with it all with a blank face because she was sent her best friend to die. But this time, her heart speeds up in anticipation. 

“No,” she tries to be firm, but her voice is thick. She could never hide from Wells. Even if she tried, he saw through everything. So she gave up trying, “I won’t do that. I won’t leave you. And I won’t let anyone else make sacrifices for me. Never again,” she finishes, shaking her head, “Not you.” 

She remembers hearing those words said to her, in a different context. Lexa’s barely shuttered gaze, the kiss they shared that might have broken another, tiny piece of her heart. The heat bares down on them, and Wells looks at her with something that is most certainly forgiveness, but there’s no way she deserves it. No way. But, he’ll give it too her anyway. She’s pretty sure he’d give her anything she asked. He hugs her then, even though they’ve had this conversation before, her apologizing, crying in his arms late at night, buried in something familiar and grounding, eyes closed, inhaling his scent and feeling so guilty about being loved unconditionally. Nothing was worth losing him. Nothing, nothing. 

Clarke thinks he might be the person she loves most in the world. Trusts most. 

_You care for him._

_Yes,_ she’d said, _he’s my best friend. He’s my brother._

“I’ll be fine. We’ll all be fine. Lincoln’s reasonable. Raven got close to Octavia. No one’s going to hurt us. They won’t risk angering you. Trust us—“

“You don’t know him,” Clarke says soberly, when she pulls back, and Wells looks away, uncomfortable at the thought of Bellamy. Absently, she wonders about her wedding night, the blur of music and people and dancing. The wine. What happened with everyone else?

“Do you?” Wells asks, turning to her now, eyes still clear, voice still soft.

It’s Clarke’s turn to look away, now, over the city. The people and the bustling, all noise and dust. 

“No. That’s the problem.”

—

Later on, she’s back in their room, changing into something lighter, even though it’s most likely she’ll be naked by morning. The lines of Bellamy’s shoulders are tense, she can see them clenched, and it worries her. He’d stormed into the room, all quiet anger, setting aside his sword, pulling his shirt over his head, moving quickly to the wine, where he drinks from the bottle. 

“What is it?” she asks reluctantly, and she doesn’t even finish the sentence before he turns around, and it takes all she has not to flinch at his face, contorted in barely-contained anger, jaw set dangerously. All she has is a second before he’s upon her, hand firm on her jaw and tilting it up. She meets his anger with something cool.

“Do you think it is alright to lie to me?” he grits out through his teeth, eyes wild.

And her stomach sinks, suddenly. Did she leave the tea out? Did he find her out? He’ll kill her. He’ll kill everyone she cares about. Everyone she loves.

 _“Do you think it is alright to lie to me?_ ” he booms, right in her face.

She doesn’t answer, instead, swallows, which is hard, with the heel of his hand so close to her throat, _“Let go of me,”_ she says, low and threatening, and when he does, “Let. Go. Of me.”

He does, for a few second, but his hands are on her again, just as threatening. It’s slow, and firm, but not the tiniest bit bruising, which sort of frightens her. His hands moving down to her clavicle, up her neck and into her hair. And he tugs, a little harder than he has before. She’s certain she’s about to die. But, she’s more afraid about the three people she trusts. Three people she cannot lose, even if she loses herself.

“How does he touch you? Fuck you. Better than I do?” he says, with untamed eyes, he is dark and vicious.

Clarke reels, and even though it’s ridiculous, she blinks, and says, “What?”

“Do not lie to me!” he shouts, “Someone saw you,” and when she looks at him incredulously, “They saw you, his arms around you,” he starts swearing in Latin, spiting venom in her face, and she’s shoving at his arms, because she realizes he’s talking about Wells.

And she says, like she’s said before, “He’s my best friend. He’s my brother—“

Bellamy only tugs her forward, practically drags her, and throws her on their mattress, is on her so fast she might have missed it if she blinked, “You’re lying,” he says, in between struggling with her, knocking away her arms, his voice is deep and dark and stirring actual fear in her, “You are lying, I know you are, you’re lying to me,”

“No,” she insists, furiously shaking her head, no to him, and no to the claim. They’re fighting now, pushing and pulling “I’m not, I swear—“

“—Do not _fucking_ lie to me, you _are_ fucking him, he’s touched you, I know it—“

“—You’re fucking insane!” she yells, finally, _finally._ But, Bellamy speaks over her, as if she did not say anything, or as if he already knows this. And how could he not? Dead mother, father beating him senseless for years. Who knows what else has happened? She doesn’t.

“I will kill him. I swear, _I will kill him_ , do you hear me? I will run him through with my sword. Or do you want me to serve his head for dinner? Hm? _Do you?_ ” he continues fervently, malicious and loud, and her hearts stops dead in her chest. No. No, no, no—

She changes tactics quickly, pushing down her impulses, but it does nothing to steady her heavy breaths, “I wouldn’t. Bellamy. Listen to me,” she lets him pin her down, wrists at the side of her head, and in return he starts his bite at her, he like to bite at her, he runs his teeth sharp down her neck and chest. When he tears open her dress with a sound that makes her jump, she lets him, doesn’t try to hide her gasp, one that’s almost a moan, much to her self-hatred. And instead of pushing at him, Clarke’s hands go to his bare chest, sweeping up and down the hard, dusky planes with hands that only tremble a bit, and that stops him dead in his tracks, his eyes are wide and shiny, his chest is heaving beneath her fingers. 

“There’s only you,” she says deliberately, softly, and for good measure, trails her bare leg up his body and curls it around his waist, “Only you.”

There’s a too-long moment, but she fills it by lowering her hands until they come to the waistband of his pants, hands steady and eyes on his as she unties them. They slip only slightly down his waist, low on his hips, and he bends down to his her hard and deep. Clarke opens her mouth for him, touching him, his shoulders, his hair that’s soft and just a little damp from sweat. She uses it to tug him gently away, he looks so tortured, and she’s surprised. She really is. Not at his rage, so much. But at the level of which he want to have her, wants to keep her. Wants her, as if it’s consumed him. She loathes herself, suddenly. For liking it. “He’s my brother. I promise. I’m not lying to you,” she manages that last line convincing, “I’m not, there’s only you—“

Bellamy cuts her off his another kiss, breathing a shaky breath into her mouth and resting his face into her neck. “I will not share you,” he says firmly, but it’s honestly a little weak, his voice. Tired. “I will not. I _will_ kill him. I will.”

Clarke swallows, “You’re not sharing me,” and it’s mostly true, with the dead and lost lovers in the back of her heart, lingering there, unable to leave.

“You are mine. Say you are mine,” he demands, lifting himself to look into her eyes, hands planted on either side of her face. 

She doesn’t hesitate, not because the words don't twist at her, not because they don’t make her sick. And not because she actually fears for her life, he wants her too much. But because there are people in this place she’d give her life for, “I’m yours.”

“And I am yours,” he mutters right after, which shocks her, but she recovers quickly but pushing  him on his back. 

He’s solid, but languid and easy, a little pliable now that she’s placated him. She pulls his pants off, down his legs and lets what is left of her dress slide off her. Bellamy watches with dark eyes as she moves up his body, settling on his lap. He’s rubbing up and down her thighs soothingly, as she slides down onto his cock. Even after everything, she’s wet and ready for him, rocking back and forth and trying to keep the image of dead people out of her head and dripping all over him. Focusing on Bellamy’s pitch-black look, the way he grips her ass and waist and breasts, her ribs that are no longer jutting out from the stress of what she’s done, and thanks to the rich food she’s been eating. She’s gained weight back, in her breasts, her ass, and in a tiny roll at the bottom of her stomach, but Bellamy seems to love it, he’s always smoothing his hands over her, just like now. 

She rolls her hips slowly at first. But it feels so good. So good. So, she goes fast, snapping her hips hard and quick at the prompting of his hands around her hips, the eyes flicking from where their bodies meet to her face. The feeling of being open and naked, the way she feels like she’s on display for him, is scary and sexy at the same time.

—

“I want you to go,” she tells Wells in the morning, sternly, “You need to go home. Send Nathan back in your place.”

He opens his mouth to protest, but her look is so sure, so certain, dark with warning. He knows her so well, so he nods.

“Okay.” 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Please leave me a comment, it really motivates me, especially as far as this story. I'll try to update more frequently. The next chapter will have Miller, so that's nice. Again, all the mistakes are my own, I have no beta, and I am shit at editing.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry, everyone. (Especially for the long title)


End file.
